


hoping you’ll come around

by shaolins



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Radio 1 Breakfast Show, Set in April 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 16:58:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13815507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaolins/pseuds/shaolins
Summary: Harry Styles quizzed by Chris Martin, Zayn Malik and his Mum (BBC Radio 1)orHarry releases Sign of The Times and promotes it on Radio 1. Zayn Malik sends a message.





	hoping you’ll come around

**Author's Note:**

> heyyyyyy! imagine if zayn had sent a question for harry here https://youtu.be/TnW8wV9aCv0 ? i wrote a fic about it :) enjoyyyyy

There’s no one at first when he hits play, just an empty leather chair in a bright room. Harry looks closer, searching for any clues as to who it could be, and then he sees that the walls behind the chair are spray-painted. He gasps, an involuntary, quiet as can be thing, because there’s only one person he knows with walls like that.

He remembers how he used to complain about his mom not letting him paint in the house, so he’d gotten his own because he was determined like that. It’d been his thing then, and Harry suddenly remembers a heart they’d painted on a wall in a city they didn’t even know, their initials painted together.

He looks at Nick then, but he _wouldn’t_ , would he? Nick is looking at him, grinning like a mad man, and just like that Harry knows he’s screwed. There is a noise coming from the laptop and Nick nods at it, as if he’s daring Harry to look. So he does, and there he finds him: Zayn Malik.

“Hey, Harry,” he says, then rubs his nose. It kicks the air of his lungs, seeing him, because it’s been two years and he’s the same, that quiet, shy air about him, but also different: the tips of his hair are green, one side of his head shaved. He has a beard, a full one, one that Harry could only ever dream of growing. 

“Zayn here.” There’s a tight smile and then he’s looking beyond the camera. Harry wonders what or who he’s looking at, if it’s his mom or one of his sisters, maybe a friend or maybe a girl. He doesn’t have to wonder anymore when Zayn talks again, “sorry, my cat’s making a mess. Anyway, my question is, what was your inspiration for this song? Congrats, by the way,” and then he rubs his nose again, and it’s one of the things that Harry knows so well. It’s his tell when he’s nervous, and Harry wishes it was a Skype call instead of a video so he could call him out on it, maybe throw him a line. _What, you nervous?_ he’d say, just to make him blush. 

The video ends there, and when the screen goes black Harry gets a look of himself on the reflection, his eyes wide and his mouth parted. He fakes a cough just to hide the flush that’s creeping on his face.

“So that was nice, right?” 

It is, is the thing. It’s nicer than Harry deserves, and that’s what’s made him lose his cool so much; the fact that here is Zayn, congratulating him on his new song. It seems out of this world, how their lives have played out, how it seems like yesterday when he got that call at 2 a.m., when Zayn’d said _I’m sorry, it’s not you. I can’t do it._ But Harry’d heard what he wanted to hear, and all the time he’d been thinking, _it’s me he’s getting rid of._ It wasn’t that at all, and it took Harry so long to understand, it took him countless of sleepless nights.

It wasn’t about him at all; Zayn wasn’t in love with it, their job, and he’d been miserable. And while Zayn took one of the most important decisions of his life, Harry was being a brat about it, laughing and being bitter, thinking he’d been left behind. Zayn had called everyday after, and Harry ignored every call until they stopped coming. And long as it took him to understand what it was really about, it’s taken him even longer to forget the mornings they woke up together, all the kisses and the promises they made. 

But he can’t say any of that. “It’s really nice, yeah.”

“So answer the question!”

He’d been so focused on Zayn that he hadn’t even processed the question. “Uh, what was…”

“Should we play it again?”

Before Harry can reply, someone from the other side of the room responds. “Your inspiration for the song,” Jeff says, and Harry could kiss him because he thinks he’d die if he had to watch that video again. 

“Right. Thanks. Um. Rock?”

Nick grins. “Rock. That’s your inspiration?”

“Yeah, uh, rock music,” he says and it sounds so lame that he wants to die, just straight up drop dead on the floor. 

“Okay, well, that was the last video that we’ve got for you. I reached out to Niall and Louis but didn’t get anything back.”

“Hm.”

“It was really sweet of Zayn,” Nick presses on. If Harry didn’t love him like he does he would’ve punched him. “Wrote him and he got back to me in a day.”

“Ha.”

“Yeah,” and then Nick takes pity on him, finally. “Chris Martin sent his right away, bless his heart.”

All Harry can do is nod, not trusting his voice to speak. Because here is Zayn, supporting Harry even though he doesn’t have to. Zayn, with the tips of his hair dyed green. Zayn, with paint on his walls. Zayn, the bigger person.

“Anyway, thank you Harry Styles for coming to Radio One this morning,” and just like that it’s done, just like that Nick is looking for a song to play and it’s done.

***

“I hate you so much.”

“Aw, I love you too!”

Harry hides his face in his hands and groans. “That was terrible.”

“No it wasn’t!”

Harry uncovers his face just to glare at him. It only gets him a laugh from Nick.

“It really wasn’t. It’s not like you’re much of a talker anyway.”

“Hey,” he says, offended.

“It’s true! Look, it went great,” and then he grins, that devilish grin of his that Harry both loves and fears. “Now you have an excuse to talk to him.”

Harry’s mouth drops open. “What?”

“God, you’re dense.”

“Nick!”

“Harry, he sent that video in a day. A day! Even your mom took ages.”

As much as Harry doesn’t want to admit, he knows exactly what Nick means. That doesn’t mean he’s not gonna fight it, though. “So?”

“So,” Nick says, unimpressed, “he clearly cares. I’ve given you a chance; take it. Now go away, I’ve got a show to run.”

“You are such-” Harry starts, but then Nick is shutting him up as the song ends and he’s live again.

***

“Gosh you’re sweaty,” Lou says as soon as she sees him. She sighs. “I’m gonna have to do your makeup again.”

“It’s alright,” he says, hugging her, and he hadn’t realized earlier but his legs are shaking and so are his hands. “I’m going home anyway.”

“Are you alright?” she asks when they step apart. 

Harry nods. “I’ll go, yeah? Talk to you later.”

But Lou doesn’t let him go straight away; instead she gives him a long, hard look, like she knows exactly what he’s thinking. It wouldn’t be difficult to guess, anyway. “Talk to him, Harry. I promise it’ll be okay.”

***

The thing is, he wants to talk to Zayn so bad. Since that night he said goodbye. He wanted to pick up every call and beg Zayn to come back. Not the band; _come back to me_ , he wanted to say. So bad he dreamt about it, so bad that he’d wake up saying his name only to wake up to an empty bed. But it’s been long, so long. 

But Nick’s given a chance; that’s true. He could text Zayn and it’d make perfect sense, and just thinking that gets his hands to shake again, and just like that he wants to talk to him so bad, so bad that he’s opened his contact list and he’s scrolling down, down. 

He’s in a car, London looking cloudy and grey outside the window. He can’t help but wonder what Zayn is doing right now, if he’s thought about Harry like Harry’s thought about him, everyday for the past seven years. He stops scrolling when he gets to the letter Z.

Zayn Malik, it reads. It looks weird, out of place, and Harry supposes it is, because he doesn’t deserve to have his number after what he did to him. He presses _message_ and it doesn’t occur him until then that maybe Zayn’s changed his number. And wouldn’t it be funny, if Harry’d gotten all the way here just to text a number with no owner.

He’s about to type when he realizes that Zayn deserves better than a text. He deserves better than a call, but he’s in New York and Harry’s in London and it’ll have to do. 

It’s not until he hears a sleepy _hello?_ that he remembers the time difference, and he wants to kick himself. 

“Who is it?” Zayn says when Harry doesn’t respond, and it’s so quiet that he almost doesn’t hear, his heart beating so loud in his ears.

“It’s Harry.”

There’s silence then, silent as it can be with the constant sound of the car and Harry’s heart beating hysterically. He wonders if Zayn’s hung up on him, and looks at the screen just to make sure. He hasn’t; it stills says ‘Zayn Malik’ and the seconds pass and pass and pass.

“It’s two in the morning,” Zayn says finally. He doesn’t sound angry.

“You sent a video.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“So,” Zayn starts, and leaves it there. This is his chance, Harry realizes. Zayn’s waiting. Zayn reached out and he’s waiting.

“Listen. First of all, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” and then he’s spilling, like a bath running, the water spilling from the edges. “I know this call is two years too late but I’m sorry,” he sucks in a breath and this is the hardest part, admitting he was wrong. “I’m sorry I made it about me. It wasn’t, I know now, and I should’ve been there for you.”

Here he is, laid bare in the back of a car in the middle of London. Here he is, miles away from where his heart is.

“Harry,” Zayn says, and it’s so soft that Harry’s eyes fill with tears. “Haz.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You woke me up,” he laughs, and Harry knows that laugh: it’s a laugh after a storm. It’s the laugh you give after you’ve cried so much and you realize that worst has finally passed. Harry laughs too.

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“You sent me a video.”

Zayn giggles. “Yeah. You liked it?”

“You looked very handsome.”

“Oh, did I?” 

“Yeah,” he says, giddy.

“I can hear you grin all the way from London.”

“Good.”

Zayn sighs, and then it’s quiet, just the two of them. There’s still so much to talk about, so much they’ve missed that he can’t help but feel nervous, because not everything is fixed yet.

“I’m going to New York in a couple of days.”

“Yeah, Saturday Night Live. That’s crazy.”

“We could meet up?” He asks.

“Okay.”

“Before,” he coughs, and he’s nervous but he has to say this. He’s lost too many things by being quiet. “Before we meet up. I just want you to know,” he closes his eyes, as if that’ll somehow make it easier, even though Zayn can’t even see him. “I love you. I’ve loved you everyday for the last seven years, so.”

When Zayn doesn’t say anything, Harry panics. “I mean because I can’t live thinking that you don’t know. And if you wanna be just friends that’s okay. I just want you in my life.”

“Harry.”

“And if you didn’t want me as a friend then that’s fine, I was shit, I’m still-“

“Harry,” he says, laughing now. “Shut up.”

He opens his eyes. “Okay.”

“I love you, you moron. I wouldn’t have sent that video otherwise.”

Harry sighs, relief taking over his body, making his legs and arms feels like jelly. He’s grinning like crazy, and when he looks at himself in the rear view mirror does he remember that he has company. His driver is grinning, too.

“Okay.”

“Thank God for Nick, huh?”

“I owe him,” Harry agrees. “I’m taking him to SNL, him and you, yeah?” 

“Okay.”

“I want to show you so much. And your album, God, it’s amazing.” He thinks back to that night when he’d first heard it, how it’d felt like a punch in the gut, every song so beautifully made. “It’s amazing, Z.”

“Thank you,” he says, giggling, and then: “so did you answer?”

“What?”

“I don’t actually listen to Nick’s show, you know. So what was your inspiration for the song?”

Harry smiles. “Well, you, obviously.”


End file.
